When I was 5 years old I jumped into a hole that I couldn’t get out of.

The fire truck had to come and my mom brought me Kool-aid.

I don’t remember jumping or sirens or even being scared.

I just remember Kool-aid.

And my mom, long legged and unsure of what to do.

And my mom, tall as sky and nonchalant as sugar water.

At the time, we lived in a new HUD home on a dead end street that wasn’t yet paved.

There were other kids too and we all played together like it was our royal birthright.

We were kings.

We established our thrones on top of new home construction sites.

Piles of dirt were mountains to be conquered, governments to be overthrown.

And where dirt made mountains, the earth made holes all the to way to china.

Everyone took turns, jumping in, climbing out, telling of their travels.

When it was my turn, I got stuck and my mom brought me kool-aid.

And for some reason I always held this against her.

Like she had done something wrong.

Like it was her fault that I jumped in a hole and got stuck.

I had this idea of what childhood was supposed to be like.

One with paved streets and real playgrounds with jungle gyms to climb on.

One with mothers in long dresses carrying pitchers of fresh squeezed lemonade.

But instead I played in dirt piles and got stuck in a hole.

Instead I got kool-aid.

It is winter in Ohio now and I am no longer a child.

But I still feel stuck.

Stuck underneath a grey sky and a cold wind.

Stuck inside snow days- snow weeks- with three kids to entertain.

I should probably make some hot cocoa and gingerbread and blog about it.

But instead I let the boys play the wii for two hours. I let Savannah watch Barbie for three.

They fight constantly. I scream at them to stop screaming. They start crying. I start crying.

My unrealistic ideas of what childhood should look like have followed me all these years.

I see it in my children’s eyes. I hear it in their voices.

They are not happy and they think its my fault.

And I secretly agree with them.

The expectations I had for my mother I now have for myself.

I should always be playful, gentle, happy, calm, stable, nurturing.

I should love being a mother. I should be fulfilled and sometimes I am.

But mostly I’m just exhausted.

Winter in Ohio has a way of humbling its people.

And all my ideals are buried along with me deep beneath the snow.

I’m stuck.

I’ve jumped into a hole that I can’t get out of.

And I can just picture her walking towards me, tall as sky, long legs and sugar water.

And I’m laughing now- I’m hysterical!

Because I get it! I finally get it!

She had no idea what she was doing and neither do I.

And thats scary.

And thats comforting.

And I think that calls for some kool-aid…